Ander - Part 6: Subchapter 60
60
Lonin felt like he was standing right in the middle of the eye of the storm, a single spot of calm in a sea of chaos.
"Where the hell is my coat!?" Nicholas yelled, tearing cushions off the couch and tossing them to the floor helter-skelter.
"It's right there!" Bartholomew yelled back, frantically buttoning his own coat with shaking fingers.
"Where?"
"On the coat rack! Where it's always been! Every day! For gods' sakes Nicky get your head on!"
"I know, shut up!" Nicholas grabbed his coat and shoved his arms through the sleeves.
"You good? Come on, let's go!"
They started towards the back door, their boots making heavy thuds against the floorboards, completely in sync with each other even in the midst of panic.
Lonin stepped forward, blocking the way.
"Excuse us, Dad. We have -"
Lonin shoved him back, hard. The boy would have fallen on his tail had Nicholas not been there to catch him.
"What the hell, Dad!?" Bartholomew shouted, absolutely livid.
"I know you have to go, and I won't try to stop you, but before you do -"
"Dammit, Dad! We don't have time for this! The Wolves are coming!"
"- there is something I need to say to you two. You can yell and scream and stomp about like you did when you were kids, but that'll only drag it out longer. So what'll it be?"
The boys glanced at each other. It was the same glance they'd been sharing every day since they were born, that special glance that could communicate a thousand tales in a single moment without either of them ever opening their mouths, a glance between two brothers, and suddenly they really were kids again. Happy, cocky kids without a care in the world or half a brain between them. Bartholomew's buttons were all messed up, so one half of his coat hung lower than the other, and Nicholas's right bootlace was untied. It was impossible to see them as adults this way. The very notion was absurd. Neither of them have come even close to settling down, and now they were going off to fight a bunch of -
The house felt smaller than before. The air, thinner. It felt like he was suffocating where he stood.
"Okay, Dad," Nicholas said. "We understand. You can say your say, and then we'll go."
Bartholomew nodded.
All right. They both understood how important this was. Lonin cleared his throat, feeling like a doddering old Fox. He was never any good with words, and all the 'big talks' he had had with his boys over the years could all be summed up with a single sentence: Look after your stupid brother.
Lonin clapped both hands down on Bartholomew's shoulders. It awoke the slumbering pain in his fingers, but this had to be done. "Listen up, boy. You look out for your little brother out there, okay?"
"Dad, we're only seven minutes apart, I'd hardly call it -"
"You look out for your little brother, okay!?" Lonin stared the boy down, just like he used to back when they could barely walk upright. "He's always got his nose to the ground, sniffin' after every skirt and pretty smile. It's your job to make sure he doesn't do anything stupid, so you better make sure he makes it through this night, otherwise you're out of a job! Do I make myself clear?"
Bartholomew bit down on his lip, swallowed, and nodded. "Yes, Dad. I understand."
"And you!" Lonin clapped his aching hands down on Nicholas's shoulders hard enough to make his knees buckle. "You look out for your big brother out there, okay?" The boy was already nodding vigorously, tears dancing in the corner of his eye, but if he thought it would cut this talk short, he had another thing coming. "He's always got his head up in the clouds, never watching where's he's going, never paying attention to nothing, always joking around. It's your job to make sure he doesn't do anything stupid, so you better make sure he makes it through this night, otherwise you're out of a job! Do I make myself clear?"
Nicholas sniffed. "Yes, Dad. I understand."
Lonin stepped back, feeling tired and drained. Was that really it? Was that all he had to say to his boys? This might be the last time he ever...
"Alright. That's good enough. You'd better get going. They'll need every strong pair of hands they can get."
Nicholas and Bartholomew embraced their father, each giving him a hearty clap on the back. It was a strong hug, filled with love and respect, but it was over far too soon. Probably any kind of hug would have felt quick and rushed in that situation, and although Lonin knew this, he couldn't help but feel a deep stab of pain in his heart as his twin boys separated from him and walked on by. It felt like he was losing a part of himself. He could hear their boots stomp through the kitchen, and he was almost too afraid to turn around. He didn't want to see their backs, and he didn't want them to see the tears in their father's eyes.
But turn around he did.
"Boys."
They stopped, one gloved hand resting on the doorknob, and turned around. They had tears in their eyes, too.
"You listen up," Lonin said, feeling the tears run down his cheeks in twin lines. One for each of them, perhaps. What he was about to say was incredibly selfish, perhaps even evil. It was something that no parent should ever think, let alone say. But he couldn't keep it back. It had to come out. "Bartholomew. Nicholas. Either both of you come back, or _neither_of you come back." His breath burned inside his throat like a blade, stinging from the inside.
The boys glanced at each other. It was the same glance they'd been sharing every day since they were born, the special glance that could communicate a thousand tales in a single moment without either of them ever opening their mouths.
A glance between two brothers.
"We understand, Father," they said in perfect unison, opened the door, and stepped outside.
Lonin rushed to the door and looked out the window, watching his sons struggle through the snow, their arms raised in front of their eyes to block the wind. In a matter of seconds, they faded into dull shadows, and then they were gone. There was nothing left except for that evil, orange spot of light in the mountain, staring through the gathering storm and over the valley like an unblinking eye.
They were gone.
They were gone.
They were gone.
"I guess that's that..." Lonin whispered. He shuffled towards the kitchen table, the rickety, old, far too small, jam-stained table where they've shared their meals for more than twenty years. He sat down in his creaky old chair, wiped his eyes, and looked down at his hands. His feeble... pathetic... cursed hands...
The fingers were curled and twisted. Each knuckle felt like it was stuffed with shards of broken glass. Straightening them out was akin to torture. Clapping his sons on the back, hugging them tight, all the things a father should be able to enjoy to the fullest was something that caused him excruciating pain.
I should be out there... I should be looking out for them...
But instead he was stuck here, sitting around at home, doing absolutely nothing while his sons put their lives on the line.
Lonin forced his already curled fingers into fists and slammed them down on the table hard enough to make the teacups rattle. The pain that exploded inside his wrists was like a giant, throbbing ball of fire. He screamed and slammed his head down against the table, grinding his teeth to dust in frustration.
He cried. He breathed. He counted the pulses of pain inside his knuckles. None of it made the time go by any faster.
In the end, he simply folded his arms, rested his head, and began to wait for his sons to come back home.
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